Watching on the Rhine

by Violet R. Markham

CHAPTER VIII
IN SEARCH OF A FISHING

Long ago in Winnipeg I remember finding two young French girls in the immigrants’ reception camp. I inquired if they had come to Canada alone. Whereat the elder with a fine gesture replied, “O non, nous ne sommes pas seules, mais mon père est allé en ville acheter des terres.” In a spirit no less spacious and confident we set out one fine afternoon to find a fishing. The Army of Occupation is desperately interested in fishing; so, like the “terres” of which my Winnipeg friend spoke, good fishing is hard to come by. Consequently much reticence on the subject exists, not to say craft. The trout streams of the Bergische Land or in the Eiffel are set in ideal surroundings from the fisherman’s point of view. All that is lacking on many occasions is the trout. The country folk are fond of talking of miraculous draughts of fishes which existed in the days before the war. The old gentleman who hires out rods by the day, when confronted with an empty bag, will explain elaborately that this unfortunate result is due to the fact that the British soldiers have caught so many trout; things are not what they used to be. Personally I am a little sceptical about these disclaimers and the shifting of the responsibility on to the broad back of the Occupation. Not that any feeling exists against Thomas Atkins in the British bridgehead. It is pleasant throughout our area to talk to the villagers and to hear their friendly remarks about the troops. Of course there were some bad characters and some bad behaviour. But Atkins, kindly and easygoing, has been a missionary of reconciliation in many a German village. Women will tell you that they helped with the house and were kind to the children; “any English person is sure of a welcome in a village where English soldiers have been.”

So despite some lapses on the part of the Army over trout—there are stories of hand grenades used in streams—we set out with confidence to explore some valleys on the back side of Söllingen, where, according to rumour, trout of large size and merit abounded in ideal streams. Our chauffeur had a German friend who knew of a fishing. The afternoon was before us, so we set out to find the friend.

For a time we went north along the Rhine, past the great factory of Leverkusen—famous for its dyes, and during the war one of the most important of German munition works. Our way lay amid the many industrial establishments which mark the high road to Düsseldorf, and I looked with envy on their smokeless chimneys. Beyond Opladen we turned off to the right and, with the bewildering rapidity which happens in this district, found ourselves in a few minutes in a purely rural valley. Here were orchards and open meadows and black and white houses. We twisted in and out along various side-roads, till the road itself showed signs of ending in a secluded valley where a mill-pond, a mill, and a miller came into view. The miller was the chauffeur’s friend. They shook hands solemnly and exchanged greetings. Then we were introduced—was there any fishing to let? He, the chauffeur, knew from previous experience that the stream was well thought of. The miller was friendly but could give us little help. The proprietor was just dead, the upper stream was let, there were no trout now in the lower pond. But he had a friend, Herr Hermann Hollweg, who owned a Bade-anstalt in a neighbouring village. Herr Hollweg most certainly would put us in the way of getting a fine trout stream.

Back again we went, therefore, to hunt up the Bade-anstalt and Herr Hermann Hollweg. We ran him to earth without much difficulty—a second polite and courteous gentleman, but again full of regrets that he had no fishing to let. Herr Hollweg produced a large map of the countryside. At Nägelsbaum he had a friend, Herr Holbach, who assuredly would be able to produce trout. Would we kindly mention his name and Herr Holbach would do his best for us? Before we left would we like to see his Bade-anstalt? Certainly, we replied, and so we were led through a scrupulously clean kitchen, to emerge in an open-air swimming bath of extraordinary size and appointments for a small village. A group of boys and girls were swimming and splashing about in the water. On a terrace above the bath was a café where various people were having refreshments. Behind that was a large concert hall where, according to Herr Hollweg, the company danced on Sundays. Nothing has struck me more in Germany than the excellent and wholesome way in which popular amusements are arranged. Probably the industrial workers from the surrounding district pour out to Herr Hollweg’s bath and café and concert hall on Sundays. But why, one asks, is it impossible to secure similar amenities for an English town and village, where loafing and drinking are often the dismal alternative amusements of the Sabbath?

We complimented Herr Hollweg on his establishment and then set out in pursuit of Herr Holbach. Our road lay through the characteristic scenery of the Bergische Land: little villages set deep in their orchards; rich pastures, wheat fields already turning golden under the summer sun. Woods of beech and oak and lime covered the low hills. In the early days of the Occupation, British troops had been quartered in this part of the perimeter, a point about which we were left in no doubt. The inhabitants from whom we stopped to ask the way countered my German by a fine flow of English. Small compliments about their prowess in this respect causes the Boche face to be wreathed in smiles. One young woman knew all about Herr Holbach. Yes, he had a large pond with “much fish”—a form of words of which I was growing a trifle tired. Down the hill we went again till a large dam came into view—that part of the story at least was true. Also there must be some earnest expectation or hope of fish, judging by the depressing number of rods which were dangling over the bank. We walked on to the damhead, and there encountered a hero in charge of two rods. He had lived in America and spoke English fluently. No, we had come to the wrong place for trout; this was carp-fishing—witness the rods. Were there any carp? Oh yes. Upon which he plunged down to the water’s edge and produced a net with two large fish in it. Herr Holbach, who lived in a house across the dam, might have some trout-fishing, but he was doubtful about this.

Our latest friend had served in the Navy, and we fell into general conversation with him. As is usual when talking to German working-men, I was struck by a sense of weariness and horror in all he said about the war. Their rulers had been mad, that was his view; the war had brought nothing but utter misery, there ought never to be another one; they were happy and prosperous before, now they were ruined. Our talk on the damhead was yet another proof that if the League of Nations ever becomes a going concern, it will draw its strength, not from the upper classes, many of whom are rooted in the ways of the old diplomacy, but from the humble folk like our fisherman whose souls have been branded in the furnace of war.

But the afternoon was going on, and though we had had much pleasant conversation, the fishing still eluded us. Herr Holbach’s house, or rather farm, stood on the bank of another lake, and there, apparently, in addition to agriculture he turned an honest penny by letting out boats or arranging facilities for swimming.

Herr Holbach proved as pleasant as his predecessors, but equally elusive on the subject of trout. No, he dealt solely in carp; then came the familiar leitmotiv for which I was waiting—the English soldiers had taken all the trout. But he had a friend, Herr Richard Klassen, at Witzhelden, who had fishing to let and enormous trout. It was very expensive, but the trout were of a size and vigour under which any ordinary rod would bend to breaking point. His advice to us was to go and interview Herr Klassen, recommended to that end by Herr Holbach. The sun was drawing to the west and long shadows were beginning to fall over the hills and glades. If indeed it was to be our fate perpetually to chase trout from one valley to another in this smiling land, there might be a worse lot. We turned our car, and once again, hope triumphing over experience, we set out in search of Herr Klassen.

Herr Klassen, so our instructions ran, lived near the church in Witzhelden. We found the house in possession of a girl, who to our surprise showed signs of alarm at the sight of a uniform. However, her face cleared up when we explained we had come about fishing. Herr Klassen was in the hayfield; she would fetch him. Meanwhile, a neatly-dressed elderly man with a lump of putrid meat in his hand came up the road and took off his hat politely. This was Herr Klassen’s brother. The gentleman was, like his niece, a trifle nervous at seeing us, but became garrulous when our errand was revealed. We came from Cologne did we—then of course we knew of the most regrettable incident which had overtaken the Klassen family last week. No? Was it possible we had not heard—they had been fined five thousand marks for having firearms in the house;—the whole family were devoted to sport and they had various shooting guns they had not given up.